Understanding
by rizandace
Summary: Sherlock's hiding something about his newest case, and John wants answers. Set post-TGG. Friendship fic, mostly, with brief entrances from Harry and Lestrade just for fun. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is set after "The Great Game," but will contain lengthy flashbacks going back to the moments during the end of the episode. This is meant to be read as a story of friendship, with no intentional slash. If you want to look at it as pre-slash, I can't stop you, but that is not my intent as an author.**

**There will be several chapters (at least 10), but they will all be quite short. **

**I like to do something fun with my readers... If you leave a review, (please do!) it's a lot of fun to pick your favorite line or quote from the chapter and tell me why you liked it. It's a way for me to see what works, and it's a lot more fun than "great story," or "that was cute." If you want to leave any kind of review (negative reviews are fine... They tell me what I need to work on!), I'll be extremely grateful! So... Here we are. **

**Disclaimer: I am not making a profit off of this... I'm just playing with the wonderful characters/Plot that BBC, Steven Moffat, and Arthur Conan Doyle have created.  
**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 1**

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"Sherlock, you're hovering."

"I am not."

John Watson sighed, staring up at the man in front of him. "I'm _fine_," he said warily.

"Of course you are. Why would you say that?" Sherlock pursed his lips in a way that John knew meant he was feeling guilty.

"Because from the way you seem to refuse to leave the flat, you'd think I was about to drop dead at any second."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was a feeble attempt at nonchalance. John shifted slightly in his cocoon of blankets and tried a different tactic. "What about the case Lestrade called about?"

Sherlock was standing in the doorway of John's bedroom. He didn't look the least bit uncomfortable, nor did he look like he had plans to move. "Boring," he said simply, his lips turning down in that cultured, disdainful way of his.

"Boring?" John said. He shifted upward to a sitting position. He winced involuntarily as he felt his bruised rips jostle at the movement, and Sherlock tensed as if about to take a step forward. He reconsidered and leaned against the door frame, his fists clenched at his sides. John brushed the moment aside with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine. But how can you think that case sounds _boring? _Among the possible suspects are a woman who refuses to change out of a clown costume, two sets of identical twins who swear they're part of the occult, and an ex-soldier who got shot in the head and now sincerely believes he's the archangel Gabriel."

Sherlock smiled at John's summary. "I think you're overstating things a bit." But he glanced behind him and toward the door almost longingly.

John sighed, ignoring the way it hurt his ribs. "Sherlock, get out of the flat. I'm _fine_, honestly. You're going insane with boredom."

"I'm not insane," Sherlock snapped reflexively, and then seemed to realize what John had said. "I can't leave, John. You're on bed rest."

"Yes. As a precaution. I've got everything I need within reach and Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs. I'm fine."

"Yes, you keep saying that."

"And you don't believe me?"

Sherlock's face tightened slightly in memory. "As I seem to recall it, your previous definitions of 'fine' have left something to be desired."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You were 'fine' when you had just shot a civilian to save my life. You were fine' after a gang of Chinese gangsters tied you and your date up in a dark alley and threatened you. And _now_ you're 'fine' after having been strapped to a bomb, and then subsequently had a building fall on top of you when I exploded said bomb."

"Jesus, you talk a lot," John said, grinning. "Go." Sherlock hesitated. "I'll _call_ you if anything happens.

Sherlock glared. "Fine. I'll be back soon. Don't… do anything stupid."

"I thought I was supposed to be the doctor."

Sherlock gave a half-smile, which John returned. Then he was gone, hurrying out of the flat. Finally.

In an extraordinarily irritating way, Sherlock's attention over the past few days had been endearing. He clearly felt deep concern and guilt over the fact that John had been injured because of him, and was attempting to make it up to his friend in the uniquely Holmesian method of attentive obsession over every detail of his recovery. It was actually unnerving to be the sole focus of Sherlock's attentions. And it was a relief to be alone for a moment. Although…

Sherlock's incessant chatter and constant hovering may have been annoying, but it did keep the memories away. John closed his eyes and a blue, watery light filled his eyelids. He could still taste the chlorine and smell burning plaster. He could still hear Sherlock, yelling his name…

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**Author's Note: Again, I hope you review with a favorite quote/moment from the chapter! More to follow. Thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thank you so much for those who reviewed! Here's chapter 2. I have already written the first 5 chapters or so, so hopefully reviews will be fairly regular. This chapter and chapter 3 as well are both flashbacks to what happened leading up to the events in chapter 1. Please let me know what your favorite moment is! It's so fun to hear.**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 2**

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"And probably my answer has crossed yours…"

The gun was steady in Sherlock's hand, and his eyes were burning, bright blue – almost white. John found himself remarkably calm. From the minute he had decided to move in to the flat at 221B Baker Street, it had seemed destined that he would end up here – About to die, and all because of Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty's mouth lifted up slowly into a smug look of disbelief. And John knew that this had sealed their fate. Sherlock would make Moriarty believe. Sherlock would win.

It was instinct, from that moment on. The click of the gun, and John was on his feet, muscles tensed for action.

The bullet reached its mark. John slammed in to Sherlock. A bright light, scorching heat…

Water, and limbs, and screaming lungs. They untangled themselves under the water, and only when John couldn't stay under any longer did he kick for the surface, his eyes stinging from chlorine, the reassuringly conscious shape of Sherlock swimming upward beside him.

The building was gone. Piles of debris everywhere were hanging in dangerous formations around the pool. John pulled himself up over the lip of the pool and collapsed, exhausted and sopping. Sherlock tried to stand up, but realized quickly that a moment of rest would not be out of order.

"Are… you… alright?" John managed to wheeze through a roughened, waterlogged throat.

Sherlock coughed and sat up, his head pounding. "Yeah. Yes. You?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Sherlock beamed in relief. "That was… good thinking." They were silent for a minute, and then Sherlock hopped to his feet, remarkably steady. "Do you think – "

"Moriarty – "

John and Sherlock spoke simultaneously.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Sherlock's voice was calm on the surface, but John could hear his nerves bristling underneath.

Almost subconsciously, Sherlock reached out a hand for John to take. John grabbed it and stood, steadying himself for a moment before taking off around the perimeter of the space, following the consulting detective.

They poked around a few piles of collapsed building with no luck. John was almost positive that if Moriarty were lying somewhere amongst the rubble, there would be no finding him. But he also knew Sherlock. And he knew that Sherlock wouldn't be satisfied without proof.

"By the way, John," Sherlock called over his shoulder conversationally. "Never do that again." He was digging through a pile of what had once been changing rooms off the main chamber of the pool.

"Do what? Get myself kidnapped?" John asked, coming forward to help Sherlock dislodge a particularly heavy section of stone.

"No. Well, yes, that too. But that's not what I meant."

John looked at him quizzically for a moment, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock kept his eyes on the work of shifting the pieces of rubble. Finally, John was tired of waiting. "Never do what?"

"Offer to die for me." Sherlock sounded almost angry, underneath the attempted detachment. John was astounded. For a minute he just let his mouth hang open in shock, but then he pulled it closed and spoke.

"No."

Sherlock finally looked up from what he was doing. "Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'll offer to die for you just as many times as I like, thank you very much."

An odd expression crossed Sherlock's face. It was mingled anger at being disobeyed and astonishment at John's loyalty. John suddenly wondered if Sherlock had ever had anyone tell him he was worth it before.

"You mean a lot more to the world that I do, Sherlock."

"You shouldn't say that. It's not true."

Then, it happened. The world stopped again.

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**Author's Note: Sorry for the sort of cliff-hanger thing. I'll update again soonish, so get your review on so I know if you're enjoying it!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: My apologies... This one's really short. I'll be updating on a fairly regular basis, so that's why the chapters are so tiny. Please review with your favorite moment! Thanks for reading.**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 3**

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Sherlock and John were staring at one another, locked in some sort of battle of wills. From yards away, the sound of stone being shifted caused John's attention to move. A man. An arm. A gun. One of the snipers? Moriarty? It didn't really matter. The only thing that mattered was that the gun was pointing directly at Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. Sherlock turned. It was too late. The gun fired. John lunged. The bullet whizzed past. It missed Sherlock. It missed John, by centimeters. But the lunge forward had upset a part of the building still hanging on by a thread to its original structural integrity.

The world shifted.

When the dust settled, John couldn't see. He couldn't feel his own body. The only thing that he was conscious of was a voice.

"John! John, can you hear me? John! Answer me, will you?" Sherlock. He sounded hysterical, and then the sound of scraping stone caught John's attention. "You bleeding idiot. You had better not be dead. I swear I'll never forgive you if you're dead."

If John had been able, he would have laughed. More voices joined the scene. "Sir! We responded to a distress call… someone said there had been an explosion. Are you injured? Sir, it appears that you're bleeding." It was a young and excited voice – someone new to the emergency team. Even lying under a pile of collapsed building, John could feel himself practicing his deductive reasoning. Sherlock would have been proud.

Sherlock's voice managed to encompass disdain and panic all at once. "It's just a cut, you imbecile. There is a highly decorated ex-army doctor stuck down there, so perhaps you should stop worrying about something a Band-Aid will fix, and do you job!"

There were feet, and rocks shifting, and then the world flooded back. John could suddenly feel his body very much. And it hurt. Everywhere. How deep down had he been buried? Where was Sherlock?

He could feel his body but he couldn't move it. He could locate his eyes. He knew they were closed, but he couldn't open them. He was moving. A… a… gurney. Good. Ambulance. Hospital. Voices everywhere. Sherlock's voice, close by his side.

He was muttering, hardly conscious of his words. "Honestly, John, what did I _just say_ about risking your life for me? This was not supposed to happen. You sure as hell better wake up. I refuse to feel guilty about killing you for the rest of my life. Distracting. You're too damn distracting!"

John felt the gurney lurch upward and then stop. The ambulance started, and the rest of the world fell away.

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**Author's Note: Thank you! Please review.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: My flash-back mojo has continued longer than I anticipated... this is what happens when John wakes in the hospital. Chapters four and five are very short and take place in the hospital, and then chapter 6 will finally loop back around to where we started in chapter 1. I hope you're enjoying this! Please leave a favorite quote/moment in your review.**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 4**

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When John woke up, the first thing he became aware of was the pain and the hazy pattern of his thoughts. It took him a second to remember. Ah. The injuries. And now I'm in a hospital. I'm disoriented because of the morphine.

The second thing he became aware of was a shape sitting in the chair besides his bed.

"Harry." His voice sounded extraordinarily scratchy and raw.

"John. You're awake."

"What are you doing here?" John asked stupidly.

Harry rolled her eyes. "I'm your closest living relative, dumb-ass. Of course they're going to call me when you suffer through a near death experience. What the hell were you thinking?" Ah. So they'd be jumping straight to the lecture part of the conversation. Funnily enough, John had never actually been on the receiving end of this exchange before. "Risking your life for some guy you've known for two seconds? Getting yourself blown up?"

"Technically," John rasped, "I didn't get myself blown up. I'm fine."

"Badly bruised ribs. Two of them are cracked. Deep lacerations to the back of the skull, jaw, both arms, and your left leg. A partially collapsed lung, and a wrist shattered so badly that they had to do reconstructive surgery to – "

"Shit, how long have I been unconscious?" John interrupted, his hand jumping to the bandaged wrist.

"Three days," Harry answered. And then, feebly, as if needing to finish her checklist, "And a concussion."

Three days. Three days since… Since Moriarty, then. There was something important there; It was something he needed to know. The morphine was making his brain fuzzy.

"Oh!" Harry said suddenly, jumping up from the chair with a surprising grin on her face. "I've got to tell Sherlock you're awake!"

She headed for the door, but John's brain suddenly took a few very frightening leaps forward. "Wait! Harry, you've… met… Sherlock. Is he alright? And you're sober. You're sober?"

Harry's eyebrows raised up and disappeared into her hairline. "Not entirely sure how the two things are related, John. But yeah, Sherlock's fine. And yeah, I'm sober. My baby brother is in the hospital. I'm not likely to be drinking in that sort of scenario."

John chose not to mention that it was exactly that sort of scenario which had driven Harry to drinking in the first place. But still – there was something very wrong going on here. "You've met Sherlock."

"Yeah…" Harry said. She took a step forward, staring at John's head as if seriously worried about brain damage.

"You've met Sherlock Holmes and yet you're willing to go seek him out to bring him here?"

"Sure," Harry said, still looking confused.

"You don't hate him?" John finally asked, point-blank. He had been avoiding the inevitable introduction between his sister and his flat mate. He had been absolutely certain that the two of them would not get along at all. Sherlock would be incapable of holding himself back from deducing all of her dirty secrets right out into the open. And Harry would yell, and rage, and make rude hand gestures, which Sherlock would pretend to disdainfully dismiss, but which would secretly fester until he finally took it out on John a few days later.

But this? Harry actually laughed. "Oh! You mean the fact that he's a total and incomprehensible asshole?"

"Yes!" John said. "Well, no. But that's how I thought you'd see him."

"I do! It's fantastic!" Without another word, Harry stepped out the door, a bounce in her step.

The morphine was making John's head pound. Or maybe that was the concussion.

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**Author's Note: Reviews make me write faster. True story.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Alright, this is the last "flashback" chapter. Chapter 6 will pick up back where we were back in Chapter 1... John is at home, on bed rest. But for this chapter... John and Sherlock at the hospital! Please leave a favorite quote/moment in your review!**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 5**

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It was only a few minutes later that Harry came waltzing back into John's hospital room, with Sherlock in tow.

"You're awake."

"It's unlike you to state the obvious."

Sherlock ignored this and reached for the chart at the end of the hospital bed. John didn't bother asking – he was not at all surprised that Sherlock knew how to read a medical chart. His eyes darted across the lines, and his mouth turned down in a serious frown.

"I'm fine," John said.

"Two cracked ribs, a partially collapsed lung, a fractured – "

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you – Harry already gave me the rundown of my numerous injuries."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So you're not _fine_, John. Don't be ridiculous."

Harry had edged quietly towards the door as the two men talked. John watched her give a silly little wave and then dart around the door, disappearing down the hall.

"Moriarty?" John asked, suddenly remembering the all-too-important question.

"Gone. No idea where." Sherlock's voice was curt and icy.

"You're angry with me," John stated sourly.

Sherlock froze and pulled his eyes slowly away from the chart. "Yes."

"A 'thank you' might be in order, here."

John watched Sherlock's knuckles whiten against the edge of the chart. "I'm grateful. Thank you."

"That… sounded sincere," John said dubiously.

"It was."

"But you're still angry?"

"You shouldn't do things like that. That's too many times, now, John… It's not your fault that I'm prone to life-threatening situations. You don't get to save me."

"We're both alive, Sherlock. What would you have me do? Just sit back and let you die? I can't do that. Both as your friend and as an ex-military man, I cannot do that," John said, exasperated. He felt exhausted, although that hardly seemed logical. Hadn't he just been asleep for 72 hours?

Sherlock opened his mouth to make some sort of retort, but then closed it. "Okay."

"Okay?" John repeated, confused.

"Yes. Fine. Risk away. It's your life, after all."

"Oh gosh, thanks," John said, attempting to raise himself up in the bed. He felt too vulnerable just lying there with Sherlock walking around looking perfectly undamaged.

Searing pain. Oops. Moving was not the best idea. "What are you doing?" Sherlock snapped, rushing forward and pushing with surprising gentleness on John's shoulders. "You can't move, you need rest."

Up close, Sherlock did look a little damaged. His hair was unkempt and he looked, as if this were possible, even paler. His hands were not entirely steady, and something in his posture signaled utter exhaustion.

John knew that any attempts to take care of Sherlock would be brushed aside. He couldn't suggest that Sherlock lay down for a bit, or get a bite to eat. He couldn't tell his friend that it was going to be alright, or that it wasn't his fault. So he said the only thing that he thought might have a chance of working.

"You've just got rotten luck, Sherlock."

"What?"

"I know that you'd do the same for me, if it were in reverse. If I had a gun pointing at my chest, you'd push me out of the way. But somehow it's always _you_ that's about to die. Not my bleeding fault, is it?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, and then he smiled.

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**Author's Note: PLEASE REVIEW! I'm running out of finished chapters to post, but the more reviews I get, the more incentive I have to write faster.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Here's chapter 6! I want more reviews. I'm trolling for reviews. Please? I could withhold future chapters unless I get enough... I'm not sure if I'm mean enough for that, but just in case I am, you might as well take 2 seconds to leave a review. This chapter loops back around to where we left off in Chapter 1. I hope you enjoy! It looks like the finished product will be slightly longer than 10 chapters. Not sure exactly where it will fall just yet. Review, please!**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 6**

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From that moment on, Sherlock had been the best/most annoying caretaker John had ever known. Since John had been released from the hospital and ordered to go on bed rest, Sherlock had been attentive and present. He hardly ever left the flat, and when he did, he made sure Mrs. Hudson could step in to help.

John had watched him going stir crazy over the course of his first ten days back at home, and finally had managed to get him out of the house with the tantalizing idea of an interesting case.

He spent the day in a state of slight boredom. The peace and quiet was well and good for about an hour, but then he found himself restless. There was nothing all that interesting on the Telly, and Mrs. Hudson was entertaining guests down below.

It was well past supper when John heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Sherlock swung the door open and shut it carefully behind him before turning around.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, his eyebrows rising. John had moved out to the couch at some point during the day, tired of huddling in his room.

"Change of scenery."

Sherlock looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. "Have you eaten?"

"Mrs. Hudson brought up something."

"Good." The flat was silent for a moment. Sherlock walked across the room and threw his jacket haphazardly over the back of a chair and sat down, staring mindlessly at the ceiling with his fingers forming a temple in front of him.

Sherlock Holmes was very adept at keeping his emotions in check. But John Watson was very adept at reading Sherlock Holmes.

"What's happened?" John asked, sitting up slowly on the couch and feeling his injured limbs adjust to the new position.

"What?"

"At the case. What's happened? Something's bothering you."

Sherlock turned around to stare at John, his mouth opening slightly. "How did you know that?"

"You're being taciturn. You haven't shut up since we got back from the hospital – I'm guessing that's because you find that talking to me distracts you from remembering how close we both came to dying, and also because you're trying to stop yourself from thinking about how much you wish you were on Moriarty's trail right now. But if you think about finding Moriarty, then you inevitably feel guilty, because you know that if Moriarty catches wind of the fact you're looking, he'll most likely hurt me again. You haven't been quiet since we got back from the hospital, and now you're quiet. What's happened?"

Sherlock appeared for a moment to be actually speechless. It gave John an odd feeling of pride.

"You actually figured that out," he said blankly. "And you're… right."

"I know. So what's happened?"

Sherlock shook his head for a moment, as if shaking John's moment of deduction out of his mind. "Nothing."

John scoffed. "Really? You're not going to tell me?"

"It's just the case. It's… tricky. I've been puzzling over it and I feel like I'm missing something."

"Oh," John said. Sherlock sounded sincere enough, but if that was the only thing bothering him… "If you want to talk it through, then I'm…"

"No… No… that's alright. It's not that big of a deal. I think I'll just go to Barts for a bit, unless you need me here?" Sherlock was already standing and fetching his coat from the back of the chair.

John was a little flabbergasted, but he felt himself nodding. "No, I'm fine. I'm set. Are you sure everything's alright?" he asked. He wasn't expecting an answer from Sherlock, but he wanted his friend to know that he understood when he was being lied to. Something was not right here.

"Yes. Everything's completely fine." Sherlock took a few long strides to the door, but when his hand found the doorknob, he turned around again. "John."

"Hm?"

"Don't go anywhere." His voice sounded entirely too serious, and as John looked at him, he noticed the tightening of Sherlock's fist on the doorknob, a sure sign he was worried or stressed about something.

For a moment he felt like making a quip – _where would I go? I can barely move! _or _Whatever you say, Doctor Holmes_. But something about the look in Sherlock's eyes was bringing him up short.

"I won't. I promise."

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**Author's Note: Remember to review! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Alright. I just finished writing Chapter 11, and it's quite shocking. But if you want to get there any time soon, then I suggest you up your game! C'mon guys, review the heck out of this thing! I know you can do it! I spend my time crafting fan-based literature about a TV show and I need to feel the love! Please leave a review! (Preferably an interesting one, of course...) It looks like the final product will be 15ish chapters? That's just an estimate. Get going! Read and review!**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 7**

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The next few days passed in a similar state. John remained at home while Sherlock went off on the case, and when he came home, he was elusive and taciturn.

For John, who knew how much Sherlock enjoyed working on challenging cases, this behavior was more than a little disturbing.

"Sherlock? I was thinking I might come with you today."

Sherlock had been about to head out the door of the flat, but he stopped and turned around. "You can't. You need rest."

"My body's tired of rest. Trust me, I've been through traumatic injuries before. If I feel ready to be up, then I should be." John could tell from the way Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed that this argument wasn't going to work.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Something is wrong with you," John said blankly. "This case is giving you trouble in some way and I'm sure as hell not going to let you get yourself into some sort of deadly situation without my being there."

"I don't need you on this one, John," Sherlock said. His tone sounded bored and impersonal, but John could see through this.

"You're trying to make me feel unimportant, so I question my value to you. Then maybe I'll feel like a burden on cases rather than an asset and I'll stop asking to come."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm not entirely comfortable with how good you're getting at doing that."

John stood up, twisting his torso and feeling his faded injuries creak slightly. "I've learned from the best."

Sherlock smiled briefly, and John suddenly realized that it was the first smile he'd seen out of the detective in days. "Yes. I am the best. And as the best, I'm telling you to stay home."

John rolled his eyes and strode forward to grab his coat from the hook by the door. "I'm coming."

"Just stay here, John."

"I'm coming," he repeated stubbornly, keeping his voice neutral.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, when they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairwell below.

"Sarah," they said together. You could always tell who was coming up the stairs by whether or not they skipped the one third from the bottom, which creaked horribly when you used it. Lestrade skipped it, mainly because he always took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Hudson skipped it too, far too familiar with the oddities of the household to notice the effort. Sarah hadn't learned the trick of it yet, and besides that – she had a very distinct footfall that spoke of professionalism mixed with a never-quite-absent sense of polite hesitancy.

"Hello, John. Sherlock," Sarah said as she approached the two men. They were standing in the open doorway when she rounded the corner, and she looked a little embarrassed, as if she'd been hoping for a chance to sneak away if she lost her nerve.

Sarah had been to the hospital once a few days in to John's stay, but had been absent since, except for a few quick phone calls.

"Hello, Sarah," John said. He was pleased to see her, but also a tad bit annoyed at her timing, because –

"Yes, hello, Sarah," Sherlock said, a grin on his face. Sherlock was _never_ this happy to see Sarah, since he seemed to have difficulty sharing John with the rest of the world. Sarah had undoubtedly picked up on this, given the confused and surprised reaction she gave off when she heard Sherlock's enthusiastic greeting. "Why don't you and John just go inside and have a chat, then? I was just stepping out, unfortunately."

John rolled his eyes again. "This isn't over," he said to Sherlock. With a highly superior smirk, Sherlock stepped through the doorway and out onto the landing. With a sigh, John turned to Sarah.

"Yes, please come in."

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**Author's Note: REVIEW!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:_ Alright, a new game - If you leave a review and you have an account, I will PM you a sneak peak of the next chapter ahead of my update. It will be great fun! PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW!_**

**In other news - I just wrapped up Chapter 16, which turns out to be the very end. I usually like to wait until I have at least 4 reviews on a chapter before making the next update... The more people that review, the faster I'll update the story! I know the ending! Mwahaha.**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 8**

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Sarah stayed for a few hours. They had tea, and Sarah fussed over John's injuries. It felt nice to be cared for by someone with slightly more experience with compassion. After she left, John found himself dozing off on the couch. He was vaguely aware that it was very late, and that Sherlock hadn't come in yet. With a numb feeling that something was wrong, John pulled out his phone.

_Where are you?_ – _JW_

His text went unanswered, and after a few hours of fitful worry, John sank into a restless sleep on the couch, his hand inches away from the annoyingly silent mobile.

The sound of the door swinging open woke him hours later. He glanced at his mobile, and then at the dark form of his flat mate, shrugging off his coat in the doorway.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" John demanded, his voice groggy from disuse.

"Hm?" Sherlock seemed distracted. He set his coat down over the back of a chair and twirled his scarf around his hands absently.

"It's three in the morning, Sherlock! For I knew you were lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death." He didn't know where his anger had come from, but suddenly his blood was pounding from it. He swung off of the couch and stood, facing Sherlock, who was frowning slightly.

"I wasn't aware that I needed to check in with you," he said, attempting to keep his voice aloof. John just thought he sounded tired.

"I sent you a text."

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised. He fished a gloved hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the phone. "Ah. I must've… turned it off."

"You never turn your – Oh, never mind. Just let me know next time if you're going to be out at all hours of the night."

"You're not my keeper, John," Sherlock said disdainfully.

"True. But I am your friend. You may be unfamiliar with the sensation of worry, but us lesser mortals have to deal with our silly irrational fears, and – "

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm perfectly capable of worry, John."

John barely heard him. " – In _your_ case, Sherlock," he continued, "my worries _aren't_ irrational at all, are they? You were probably just off doing something insanely dangerous, but you won't tell me about it because your damn pride or whatever it is that's happened to you is preventing you from being honest!"

"I don't need you to look after me! I did perfectly fine before you came along, alright?" Sherlock said. It wasn't quite anger. It was as if he was raising his voice intentionally, just to indicate a certain emotion.

And John knew this. He didn't know _why_, but he knew that Sherlock was trying to put a wall up. It might have been for a very good reason, for all he knew. But understanding something to be true didn't stop it from hurting.

"I know you were. I wasn't saying…" John sighed. "Fine. You do whatever you want. I'm going to bed."

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced back over his shoulder for a brief second. Sherlock was standing facing the couch where John had been moments before. For the moment, the mask that he usually kept up to guard his emotions was absent. He looked… tired. Broken. Worried. And… scared?

If Sherlock Holmes was scared about something, then that was cause for serious concern. John turned around and trudged up the stairs to his room. In the morning, he'd demand answers.

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**Author's Note: REVIEW FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF CHAPTER 9!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! Same deal this time around: If you leave a review, I'll give you a sneak peak at Chapter 10. I still would really enjoy hearing people's favorite quote/moments from the chapters! Thanks to all my readers. Things heat up in the next chapter!**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 9**

* * *

A full week had passed since Sherlock had first started the case, and he still refused to speak to John about it. John had, at this point, recovered enough to head back to work. But even a slew of patients could not distract him from his concern. One night, Sherlock had come back to the flat with a spectacularly black eye.

"Sherlock? What happened?"

The detective glanced at John distractedly, and then strode into the kitchen, returning a moment later with John's pain medication.

"You haven't been taking these," Sherlock said conversationally, frowning at the half-full bottle.

"Yes, because I'm no longer in pain. What did you do to your eye?"

"Not important, John. Just got into something of a disagreement with the father of one of the victims. He seemed to take offense when I pointed out his wife's obvious infidelity."

Something was wrong with that statement, but it took John a moment to realize what. "One of the victims?"

Sherlock stiffened. "Right. There's been a few deaths since the original." He seemed unable to meet John's eye.

John stood, crossing behind Sherlock to enter the kitchen. "I can't believe you didn't mention this," he called over his shoulder. He opened the freezer, barely wincing at what appeared to be a thumb and a forefinger, frozen in a green solution of some type. He swung the freezer closed, bringing back an ice pack and tossing it to Sherlock, who had sunk into his armchair. "Serial killer?"

Sherlock shrugged, examining the ice pack dubiously. "Perhaps. I'm following a couple of leads."

John waited for elaboration, and sighed when none came. "If you're not going to tell me about the case, could you at least tell me _why _you won't tell me?"

Sherlock rolled his un-swollen eye, and placed the pack over the other, twitching away from the cold.

"You're still recovering," he said shortly.

"I'm f – "

"Yes, yes. You're fine. I've heard that before."

"I _am_. Maybe I'm not quite ready to chase bad guys through the alleyways of London, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't tell me what's going on."

"If I tell you about the case, you won't leave it alone," Sherlock said, his voice betraying a hint of worry.

"So this case _does _involve chasing villains through alleyways. You're going to get yourself into serious trouble Sherlock, and since you refuse to let me in on the case, I'm not going to be there to save you."

"Did it ever occur to you that that was my intention?"

"Yes, it has. But you're wrong to leave me out," John said stubbornly. "If you won't tell me, I'll go to Lestrade."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Leave it alone, John."

"Do you really think I'm going to do that?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned. "No. But you should. I'm being careful, I swear."

John sighed. "I'm tired of being lied to, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked affronted. "What is it that you think I'm lying about, exactly?"

"You're not telling me about the case. Why?"

"Because you're not entirely healed yet. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Liar."

Now Sherlock looked positively insulted. "I most certainly am not lying! Do you think I'm incapable of concerning myself with your well-being?"

"Alright. You're not lying, exactly. You're just leaving something out."

Sherlock looked for a moment like he wanted to deny it, but then shrugged. "Fine."

"I'm going to figure it out."

Sherlock smirked, portraying amusement and disbelief. He stood up and spun the ice pack around in his hands. "You can certainly try."

* * *

**Author's Note: I know this one was extra short... Just keep with me! Please review for a preview of Chapter 10!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in posting this one... I was pretty tied up over the weekend. Here is Chapter 10! If you want the very exciting sneak peak from Chapter 11, then please leave a review! Thanks to all my readers for sticking with me. **

**Understanding**

**Chapter 10**

* * *

John sighed, running a hand though his hair. It had been a particularly trying day at work, and the fact that he was still worried about Sherlock didn't make things any easier. A vague snippet of Sherlock's voice forced its way into his head – _Too damn distracting!_

It was. It was too damn distracting to be worried all the time about whether or not your best friend was being gunned down by psychos or playing mind games with masterminds. The flat was empty. John remembered how it was when he had first moved in here – Sherlock was almost _always_ home when John arrived. He would say he found it tedious to leave unless he had a real purpose. Without a case, he saw no point in leaving the flat at all.

And now, he was always gone. It was the same case, as far as John knew. The same mysterious, haunting case. There was something wrong – that much John was certain of. He just couldn't figure it out.

He sighed, flopping down on the couch and staring with vague interest at the remote. Did he want to watch telly, or just go straight to bed? He was so tired he could barely see straight – after all the times he had told Sherlock, Sarah, and Mrs. Hudson that he was perfectly alright, he didn't want to admit that he wasn't back to 100%. He could spend a perfectly normal day out and about, and feel completely drained at the end of it.

Before he could decide, footsteps sounded on the stairs. John knew instantly that it was Lestrade from the way that the footfalls seemed to pound on every other step like someone was jumping with all their strength. Lestrade always acted urgent, even when he wasn't. It was with this thought in mind that John tried to keep himself from panicking. It was very possible that nothing was wrong.

But something told John that this was wishful thinking.

"Sherlock! John!" Lestrade's voice certainly sounded urgent. Wonderful.

"What's going on?" John asked, already on his feet as the Detective Inspector entered the room.

"Oh, you're home. Good, you're home," Lestrade said, breathing entirely too heavily for nothing but a quick run up the stairs.

"Yes, I'm home. What's happened?"

"Did Sherlock contact you at all today? Did he stop by?"

"No. What's happened?" John repeated. Something was wrong. Something was very, very, wrong.

"I think he figured out where he was supposed to go… He beat us to it, of course. But then he said he just needed to stop by the flat for a moment. Shit, of course he was lying. He's probably already there. God, that man can be so _stupid_ sometimes. I can't believe it."

"Wait. Slow down. Where's Sherlock?" John asked. His stomach was twisting horribly and his heart was pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.

"He figured out where Moriarty wanted him to go. At least that's what I'm assuming, although I still have no idea where that might be, and – " Lestrade stopped talking as he caught sight of John's face. "What? John, what is it?"

"Moriarty?" John said, his voice coming out choked. "Please tell me that this case isn't Moriarty."

Lestrade looked confused for one moment, and then his eyebrows flew up in understanding. "He hasn't told you."

John felt his voice rising. The hairs on the back of his neck were on end. "Told me _what_, exactly? _Where's Sherlock?_"

Lestrade looked alarmed at the look on John's face. "We don't know. All we have is this." John strode forward impatiently as Lestrade fished around in his pockets for something and produced an evidence bag.

John ripped it out of his hands and tore away the plastic, taking a single sheet of white paper in both of his hands. Four words, written in inconspicuous black ink. "Back to the beginning," John read aloud. "What does that mean?"

"We're not sure. We found it at the site of the fifth body – there were other clues, of course. And each one would lead us to another murder – this Moriarty character is shifty. He doesn't seem to be personally implicated in _any _of these crimes. It's like he's just waiting in the shadows, playing puppet master. He's like a… a…"

"Consulting criminal," John muttered, hardly listening. His heart was still pounding abnormally hard but his mind seemed to have gone numb. Of _course_ Sherlock did this. Of course he lied and kept John out of it and of course he was probably with Moriarty right now, about to die for no good reason.

And of course it was up to John, _again_, to save him.

* * *

**Author's Note: The more people that review, the faster I'll add the next chapter! If you want a sneak peak of Chapter 11, hit the pretty button and leave me a note!  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: I'm depressed because people's interest seems to be waning. I have decided to combine what was originally Chapters 11 and 12 into one long mega-chapter so hopefully people are intrigued... Please leave me a review, even if it's to tell me that you don't like my story. I just want to know what you think. I'll give you a sneak peak of Chapter 12 if you do!**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 11**

* * *

Lestrade and John stood inside the doorway to the flat. Lestrade was staring at John, and John was staring at the note clutched in his hand. He shook his head to snap out of the haze he seemed to be operating in, and looked up.

"The pool?" he said, grabbing his jacket and walking towards the door.

"Hm?" Lestrade said.

"Come _on!_ The beginning? Where it started? Carl Powers. Could they be at the pool?" John said impatiently. He retreated back into the building and slipped his gun into the pocket of his jacket, returning to the entryway without comment. He wasn't technically allowed to fire the thing at a civilian, of course. But Lestrade didn't need to know he had it.

"Donovan already checked. That's what we thought too. No sign of anything. It's still closed off from the explosion," Lestrade said, following John out the door.

John cursed and took the stairs down two at a time, waving an impatient hand over his shoulder. Stupid Lestrade. Why had he ever let Sherlock go off on his own? John never would have made that mistake.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked, meeting John at the curb. John was clutching the note in his hands, his mind working furiously. He needed Sherlock for this. Sherlock was the one who made the brilliant deductions and knew where to go and what to do. He needed…

No. He had to focus. Sherlock's life could be on the line. The beginning. "Back to the beginning. The beginning of Moriarty. Not the pool, though. The very first case that Moriarty sent Sherlock on… it was Carl Powers. That's the pool. But that's wrong. So maybe where Sherlock first heard about the case? But that was our flat! That doesn't work, then, does it? The beginning of Moriarty. The _beginning!_ God, that's it!"

"What? John, what is it?" Lestrade said. He was used to being five steps behind Sherlock, but he was totally thrown by John's new show of quick thinking. He got in the police car behind John in time to hear the doctor blurt out an address. "Where are we going?"

"The Carl Powers case _wasn't_ the first, don't you see? Moriarty's been after Sherlock for a while now. Probably longer than even Sherlock realizes. So the beginning doesn't mean the first case in which the two of them were in contact. It means the first case that we can trace as relating back to Moriarty. And that's 'A Study in Pink.'"

"What – the cabbie?" Lestrade asked, mind whirling.

"Yes. The school. The university where I – where we found Sherlock and the cabbie. That's the first time Sherlock heard the name Moriarty. So that's the beginning, from his perspective."

"Genius," Lestrade said, raising his eyebrows.

John just shrugged, too anxious to notice the praise. "I'm going to kill Sherlock for this. If he's not already dead when we get there, I'm going to kill him."

Lestrade chuckled nervously. "Mind if I help?"

John smiled bitterly. "Be my guest. Aren't you going to call in backup?"

"Right!" Lestrade said. He pulled out his phone and punched in a few numbers, but John had stopped listening.

All he could think about was seeing Sherlock about to swallow that damn pill, or with the Golem's hands wrapped around his neck. A hand, sticking out of a pile of rubble, pointing directly for his chest… No. John refused to let this happen.

Even if he had to kill Moriarty himself.

* * *

Pulling up to the university on a government car was a little surreal for John. The last time he had been here, he had taken a cab. He could still remember it all so clearly. He had only known Sherlock for a few days, but the thought of him inside the building with a serial killer had made his blood run cold. He remembered the mad dash through the halls, and the terror at the sight of Sherlock, holding that pill in the air above his mouth…

And he had pulled the trigger. He had killed a civilian (albeit a truly evil one) to save the life of a man he had just met.

Of course he didn't regret it. How could he regret any second of his time spent with Sherlock? John suddenly decided that if he could get his friend out of this alive, he'd be sure to thank him – without Sherlock, John knew that he'd still be living in an empty apartment with a limp and no positive outlook on life. John also decided that if he could get Sherlock out of this alive, he'd punch him into next week for being such an idiot.

"What's the plan?" John asked, turning to Lestrade as the two of them slid out of the car. Looking around, John saw a team of policemen and women, surrounding the building from all angles, holding their weapons towards the windows.

"We wait," Lestrade said simply.

"That's the worst idea I've heard all day," John said, and he was running. He knew that Sherlock usually worked off the grid – he couldn't get in too much trouble for disobeying the police on these things, because he wasn't technically employed by them. If John wanted to get anything done, he was going to have to do it himself. And if Sherlock was in that building with Moriarty, waiting was the absolute last thing he was going to do.

"John!" Lestrade's voice called after him.

John pushed his legs faster as he heard shouts from behind him – a few of the armed policemen had abandoned their posts and were pursuing him into the building. He paid no heed – his goal was to get in and to find Sherlock. He felt for the gun in his pocket, and was reassured by its menacing shape.

"John, stop!" Lestrade again. But now he was to the door. Now he was inside.

Everything was silent. The men had stopped pursuing him when he reached the door. Lestrade had probably called them off, because he knew how risky this was. John was on his own. That was probably better, anyway.

The halls were dimly lit with flickering fluorescent lighting. It was all so familiar – the halls, the turns, the panic, the feeling of his gun in his hands. He just needed to find Sherlock. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder what he would do if he _did_ find him.

It seemed unreasonable to believe that Moriarty was in here alone, unprotected. _Yes_, John thought darkly, _because it's _ridiculous_ to get yourself into a situation like this without backup, Sherlock_.

And if Moriarty were indeed protected, then it was possible that John had a gun trained on him right now. It was possible that any second he would be shot through the head. Dead. That would be it.

But when the shot rang out, John wasn't scared for himself.

"_No_," he breathed, speeding up in the direction of the sound. There was a ringing silence after the shot, and John knew that could have been it. Sherlock might be dead.

His heart was pounding double time but his hand was steady on his gun. It never occurred to him not to run headlong in to this sort of conflict. It never occurred to him to wait for backup or proceed with caution.

Two more shots rent the air. John sped up, his throat tightening. He rounded a corner. A door at the end of the hall stood ajar. In the small space of the room that John could see, there was a partial view of a head of curly dark hair.

It wasn't moving.

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**Author's Note: Review? Please?  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Wow. Perhaps I should display my discouragement more often, since you guys really delivered. I certainly feel much more appreciated, now! So... Here we are. Chapter 12. The final story is going to wind up as 14 chapters, since I combined a few of the shorter ones here at the end to make for longer updates. I also have an idea for a One Shot coming up, so keep your eyes out for that.**

**Please review! If you don't want the sneak peak at Chapter 13, just let me know in your review. Got a favorite quote/moment?**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 12**

* * *

They say the world slows down, but that's not quite true. What really happens is that your mind speeds up – suddenly you have all the time in the world to notice every minute detail. John could feel his head pounding, but could still observe in a detached sort of fashion the odd pattern of the tiles in the hallway. He felt the gun fall slack in his hand, but he kept his grip on it as he staggered forward, toward that door. Toward that body, lying on the floor.

His mind was in turmoil – it seemed to be jumping ahead in great leaps and bounds, visiting moments in the future that he could see, just around the corner. _Sherlock's dead – we'll all have to sit through a funeral and Mycroft will be devastated and what the hell is my life going to be like without that man – this is all my fault, I wish I had… I should have…_

His feet stumbled forward seemingly without his permission. As he got closer to the door, more of the body came in to view. He reached it in time to see Sherlock Holmes blink and open his eyes, turning his head slightly in bewilderment.

"Oh, God…" John sighed, his knees weak with relief. He all but collapsed next to the prone form in front of him, too shaken to check for a pulse. He was alive, at least. Upon immediate examination, it appeared that he had been shot in the left shoulder. _We match_, John thought in a delirious sort of way.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice shaking. "John, he shot me."

"Yes, I can see that. How badly are you hurt?" John said, his voice coming out angrier than he was intending. He was still relieved – so relieved he couldn't concentrate. But a bit of his former righteous fury was bubbling up as well. How could anyone be so _stupid_?

"John. I'm fine, you've got to go and see… Moriarty. Is he – did I…" he trailed off, grimacing as John reached a hand forward to examine the wound. "John! Focus."

"I _am_ focusing, idiot! I'm focusing on your gunshot wound, so shut up and let me – " John's brain caught up with Sherlock's words. He spun around, taking note of the rest of the room for the first time. Lying in the opposite corner from the door was another body.

John stood hurriedly, feeling dizzy and very frightened. Even clearly not conscious, Moriarty was to be feared. He staggered forward toward the body, but one look told him all he needed to know.

Two bullets – both lodged in the chest. The man was dead.

He turned back around and walked back to Sherlock, dropping again at his side. "Nice shot."

"He's dead?" Sherlock asked, attempting to sit up, apparently to check for himself.

"Stay down, you're hurt," John said, exasperated. "But yes, he's dead." He couldn't help but return the weak grin that Sherlock gave him.

"Good. He bloody well deserved it, after everything he's done," Sherlock said righteously. His tone surprised John, who would have expected a horrifyingly different reaction.

"You're not going to miss him?" John asked quietly, leaning over to see that the wound in Sherlock's shoulder was clean and relatively minor.

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "Don't insult me, John. The man was a menace to society."

John smiled unwillingly. "Yes, but he was decidedly _not boring_," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes but his smile grew slightly wider. Lestrade chose that moment to burst into the room, gasping for breath.

"What happened?" he demanded, staring at the wounded man on the floor in front of him, and then at the body in the corner. "Christ, Sherlock – is that…"

"Moriarty, yes," Sherlock said, attempting to force his voice into its normal tone of barely interested condescension. "He shot me, so I had to return the favor."

"And he's – "

"Dead, yes," Sherlock said conversationally. Then he turned to John. "You know – I've never been shot before. It hurts a lot more than I would have expected it to."

"Oh, please," John said, his relief making everything funny. "This is _nothing_. A through-and-through. You'll be fine. You should have seen _mine_. Now that was something."

"Yes, of course. I had deduced it would have had to be particularly damaging, since you had to come home, and a man of your skill is clearly in high demand. You were shot from behind, but you were leaning down – tending to a patient, perhaps? Ignoring your own safety, _yet again?_"

"You aren't allowed to be upset with me for taking risks before you even knew me! _Especially_ given what you just did," John snapped. He was actually rather giddy with the knowledge that he was here, and Sherlock was here, and they were arguing with one another and all was well in the world. Eventually, he sighed, answering Sherlock's unspoken questions. "Without the quick work of an extremely qualified surgeon, I might not have any functionality left in the arm."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, staring down awkwardly at his own wounded shoulder. "How long is this going to take to heal?"

"Oy! Would the two of you please focus? Sherlock needs the hospital!" Lestrade shouted, drawing the two men's attentions away from their conversation.

"No I don't. I've already got a doctor," Sherlock said. John's hand tightened against his friend's arm. Sherlock didn't pull away.

John was still angry, but perhaps that could wait.

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**Author's Note: PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Ack I feel like a total failure... Not only did I take a long time to update this, but I don't think I gave the Sneak Peak to the 1 signed reviewer of Chapter 12... So sorry about that. I hope more people review Chapter 13... Come on... Show me some love! This is the penultimate chapter of _Understanding_, but I'm working hard on a really long and juicy one-shot that hopefully should be ready soonish... Please review if you'd be interested in it! (Otherwise maybe it will sit un-read on my computer for all of eternity).**

**Understanding**

**Chapter 13**

* * *

The hospital was entirely too institutional to contain a force like Sherlock Holmes. He had only been there for two hours and already the nursing staff was begging the doctors to release him.

"You know, you don't have to terrorize the hospital staff," John said, coming in to the room with a cup of barely drinkable tea from the hospital's cafeteria.

"I'm not. I just told them that I didn't need pain medication and they started yelling about protocol and other tedious things like that," Sherlock sounded extraordinarily bored, given the events that had taken place that evening.

John was having difficulty containing his curiosity. "So… what happened?" he asked, coming forward to sit on the chair next to Sherlock.

"It hardly matters now, John. It's over with."

"Yes. But I still want to know," John said, too accustomed to Sherlock's methods of evasion to be sidetracked.

Sherlock sighed. "Moriarty was playing games with me again. He had me solve different murders, as before – but this time the clue to each murder would be hidden within the evidence of the previous one. All very ingenious."

John waited. Sherlock was silent. "That's it? That's all you're going to give me?" John said angrily. Yes, the anger was back. It was growing.

"Well, if you want the details you can ask Lestrade. It's useless to go over it all again."

"Do you have any idea how truly idiotic it was of you to confront Moriarty without telling anyone? _Again?_ Didn't the scene at the pool teach you anything?"

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in slight surprise at John's outburst. "I took a calculated risk."

"You – You – How do you think it was for me, when Lestrade comes running up to the flat and informs me that you've been playing games with Moriarty again? How could you not tell me that? After _everything_ that I've done for you!" John stood from the chair, pacing to the other end of the room. His heart was thudding in his eardrums. Sherlock looked slightly perplexed, but still only minimally interested.

"Moriarty might have used you against me if I had taken you along," Sherlock said finally. He sounded like his normal calculating self, but John knew this was as close as Sherlock came to expressing feeling.

"That may be true. But I should have been with you. I could have helped," John said wearily. How could be make Sherlock understand that he _wanted_ to be out there with him? That protecting him wasn't a burden or a chore – that John considered them partners, and that Sherlock's deception came across as betrayal?

"It wasn't necessary, John. It would have been foolish to risk it."

John could feel the anger ebbing away from him. All he felt now was tired. "It's foolish to keep me updated about Moriarty, but it's _not_ foolish to meet him alone in an abandoned university without telling anyone about it?"

"Ah, yes, good work in figuring out the clue, by the way. I'm assuming that was you, given that nobody else knew about Moriarty's connection to the case with the cabbie." Sherlock's praise normally would have elated John, but he couldn't bring himself to it.

"Yes. Well. It wasn't difficult," John said. "I still can't believe you did this to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, presumably adjusting to the reality of John's annoying emotional attributes. "I didn't do anything to you, John."

"You withheld information."

"It wasn't information you needed!" Sherlock said, sounding irritated at the entire topic.

"Yes it was," John said, his voice laced with anger again. "I _want_ to be with you when you're off doing ridiculously dangerous things, Sherlock. How do you think I'd cope if something happened to you because I wasn't there to prevent it?"

Sherlock looked politely puzzled for a moment, and then attempted an explanation. "I'm assuming you'd feel guilty, because for who knows what reason you've decided that I'm somehow your responsibility. Which I'm not. So there's really nothing to worry about."

"That's it?" John said again.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You're angry with me."

And suddenly John understood something. It had been staring him in the face all this time, and he had refused to recognize it. He should have listened to everyone from the beginning. He should have listened to _Sherlock_ from the beginning. Why had he been so insistent that they were wrong?

"No, I'm not," John said. He felt defeated in a way he couldn't quite explain. "I'm angry with myself."

Sherlock looked properly perplexed, and apparently decided that the effort it would take him to sort it out was more inconvenient than the embarrassment of asking for a hint. "Explain."

"I'm angry with myself for not seeing this coming. Nobody blames a shark for attacking wayward surfers in the ocean."

"Okay – it's not often I say this, but I'm confused," Sherlock said.

"It's just the shark's nature. Everyone tried to tell me this is the way you are, and I refused to listen to them. That makes me the idiot, doesn't it?"

He turned and walked out the door before Sherlock could form a response.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry that this one is shorter than the last two. The next chapter (The last one!) is a bit longer. Please leave a favorite quote/moment in your review!  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Here it is! The last chapter! Thank you so much for all the views/favorites/subscriptions/reviews along the way! Now... I know that you won't get a Sneak Peak of "Understanding" for reviewing this Chapter, but I'd appreciate if you did all the same. I could give you a preview of my One Shot! Thanks! Enjoy! Review!**

**Understanding  
Chapter 14**

* * *

John had come back into the room a few minutes later to mutter an apology, which Sherlock had accepted, bewildered. They released Sherlock a few hours later.

The flat seemed too quiet. Sherlock had been given a bottle of painkillers and a sling, and he was poking at his arm in a distracted sort of fashion while sitting on the couch as John brewed a pot of tea simply for want of something to do.

"I had no idea you were so insecure," Sherlock said finally, after what felt like an impossible stretch of tense silence.

"What?" John asked, pulling the tea off the stove and pouring himself a cup. He poured one for Sherlock too, out of habit, and handed it to him as he entered the living room.

"You. You're more insecure than you let on."

"How d'you mean?" John asked. He felt despondent and tired. He didn't feel at all in the mood to be taken down a few more pegs by the Great Sherlock Holmes.

"You honestly thing that I didn't tell you about Moriarty because – what, I just didn't care about what you thought?" Sherlock asked, staring at John intently.

"Obviously you didn't."

"How can you think that?"

"If you cared – if you _understood – _you never would have hurt me like this."

Sherlock actually looked genuinely upset about something, so John decided to give him a few minutes. He sat down on one of the armchairs and waited, averting his gaze.

"I do understand. I understand that you consider us a team. And that you wanted to be there. That you feel… betrayed that I would keep this from you."

"Yes," John said. Sometimes conversing with Sherlock was so beautifully simple. He said the truth, and did away with everything else.

"And I know that. I would have felt the same, if somehow the scenario were reversed."

"Then why did you do it?"

Sherlock sighed, and winced down at his injured shoulder. "I'm more than willing to risk your friendship and trust for the sake of your life."

The statement was so shocking that for a moment John simply sat there, letting it sink it. But then he realized that he had known this all along. "You were protecting me."

"Of course."

"Well you shouldn't have been. I should have been there, Sherlock. You should have told me. It's up to me whether or not I want to put myself in danger. You don't get to make that choice for me."

Sherlock nodded. "I knew you'd feel that way, John. But I couldn't risk it, I'm sorry."

John grimaced, feeling the anger boiling to the surface again. "You're not hearing me, Sherlock. What I'm saying is that this was _my_ choice. You don't have the right to decide what I'm going to do."

"Look, this was my one chance to get to Moriarty. I couldn't mess it up, alright?"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean? If I were on the case, I would have messed it up for you?" John said, feeling indignant and trying not to show how that idea hurt him.

"Yes!" Sherlock snapped. Then he seemed to realize the way it sounded. "I would have been distracted."

John let that sink in for a moment. "I'm… distracting."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not exactly, no. But the fact of the matter is this – Moriarty could have very well used you to hurt me. I could see what he was doing. The murders… it was all leading up to another confrontation. If he could have gotten ahold of you, he could have tortured me much more effectively."

He said the words like they didn't mean much, but John was oddly touched, in a horrific sort of way. Apparently Sherlock would have been a lot more affected than he let on if something were to happen to him.

"How did keeping me ignorant protect me?" John asked, changing the subject. John saw Sherlock's lips twitch upward in understanding and gratitude.

"Well… You'll be angry if I tell you."

"I'm already angry," John grumbled halfheartedly.

Sherlock considered this, and then shrugged his uninjured shoulder. "I had Mycroft look after you."

"You _what_? Sherlock – you're telling me that I've been being _followed_?" John asked. "By your _brother_, no less?"

Sherlock sniffed disinterestedly. "You should consider this a sign of my regard for you, John. You know how unwilling I am to go to Mycroft for help."

"So – what – there are men outside securing the perimeter?" John asked, a biting edge to his tone.

"Naturally. And around the hospital. I had toyed with the idea of keeping you in the flat, but I couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for keeping you away from work."

"Oh, my God. _Why _would you – what could possibly have possessed you to do something like this?" John said. He couldn't tell exactly how he was feeling. Violated, certainly, and still a bit angry. But mostly… amused? The entire thing seemed ridiculous to the point of hilarity. Sherlock's idea of concern for a friend was hiring his government employee brother to tail him and stand sentry outside his home.

"I've already told you why I did it. You've been kidnapped three times already – Once by my brother, once by a Chinese gang, and once by Moriarty. I couldn't let it happen again."

"Four times, actually," John said.

"Hm?"

"Once in Afghanistan."

"You were kidnapped?" Sherlock seemed blown away by this revelation for some unknown reason.

"Yes. We were held in a cell somewhere for upwards of 72 hours with a few stale pieces of bread and a tin of unsanitary water to sustain us." John paused for effect. "It's not as if my life were peaceful before you were in it. I can handle myself."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. "That, I know. Although you would be dead if it weren't for me."

"You'd be dead first!" John said indignantly. "You would have taken the pill."

"Maybe. Besides, there was a good chance I had been right about that."

"They were probably both poisoned, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but John steered the topic away quickly so as to avoid that particular conversation. "The point is – you've got to promise me that you'll never keep me out of a case like that again."

Sherlock was silent.

"Promise me," John repeated.

Sherlock sighed. "You could have died. At the pool, or even before that, when Shen got you."

"That was nothing," John said. It wasn't quite true, of course. "I mean – mostly I was just worried for Sarah, but we were really only there for a couple of hours. In Afghanistan, we were beginning to lose hope of ever being found. You figured out where we were much quicker."

"Yes, well I was extremely well motivated," Sherlock said darkly.

"Sherlock, just promise me. You scared me, back there. I heard the shot, and I… Well, it wasn't good. You have to promise me that you'll clue me in from now on. We're a team. I've got to be there."

Sherlock seemed, for a moment, as if he wasn't going to answer. "I'm sorry I had Mycroft spy on you," he said finally.

John sighed. "Apology accepted."

"And I'm sorry that I scared you."

"Hmph."

"You're not going to accept that one?"

"I'm waiting for some assurance, here."

Sherlock grumbled something under his breath and stood, heading in the direction of the door. "Dinner, perhaps?"

"Sherlock."

"Fine. You win. Don't get used to hearing me say that." He paused for a very long time. John stood and grabbed his coat and then joined Sherlock in the doorway. "I won't keep things from you anymore."

John smiled, and the two of them headed out the door and down the stairs towards the street.

Then –

"Do you promise?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, John. How old are we? Do you really need me to say the words for it to be validated in your mind?"

"Yes! It's not _my_ immaturity. It's _yours!_ I can see you turning back on what you just said for some sort of semantics reasoning that I haven't figured out yet."

"You're so tedious, Doctor."

"Just make the promise, _detective_."

They argued all the way down the street towards Chinese.

Eventually, Sherlock promised.

THE END

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**Author's Note: Favorite quote/moment?**


	15. Author's Note

Hey all... Sorry, this isn't another chapter. I just had to respond to Indigo's review, and since he/she didn't leave a signed account, I was left no other choice!

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You're totally right in respects to this, but my actual intent (which clearly I didn't portray accurately) was a little different. When John hears:

"I'm more than willing to risk your friendship and trust for the sake of your life." At first he is shocked at Sherlock's bluntness. But of course, John has been aware (at least since the hospital, and probably well before that) that Sherlock's not telling him about the case was a way to protect him.

This isn't a revelation. What he is trying to get Sherlock to understand - the_ real_ issue at play here - is that Sherlock should understand the dynamic between the two of them. John _wants_ to be there risking his life for Sherlock, and he feels betrayed because Sherlock took away this option.

I totally agree that my phrasing and the way that it comes across makes this moment seem a little pale and whatnot... But I guess I just wanted to respond to your review because I tried to make it clear that John _did_ understand that Sherlock felt he was protecting John. The issue goes deeper than that.

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Okay as a little present for all of you who accidentally read this... I just want to give you a little Sneak Peak of my upcoming One-Shot! It might be a while in coming, since it's turning out a lot bigger than I expected, but I hope you enjoy all the same!

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Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had their own language. It was a language of few words and minute facial expressions, and John had learned that it was nearly the only way to have an honest conversation with his eccentric flat mate.

Sherlock didn't do "emotions," so John had learned how to convey them without broaching the subject head-on. John didn't like to talk about Afghanistan, so Sherlock had learned to circumvent the topic whenever possible.

It puzzled the rest of the world, but then what did the rest of the world matter?

**I. Apples**

When John Watson walked through the door of the flat, he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling with a close, focused look that meant he was deep in thought. Usually, John was considerate enough not to interrupt these moments. Right now, however, he didn't really care.

"Did you do the shopping?" he said. What he meant, of course, was _– I bloody well know you didn't do the shopping, you git. I just want to hear what excuse you come up with this time_.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock replied, shaking his head to come out of his contemplation. It wasn't the answer John was expecting, and he sighed, wondering what exactly the consulting detective had done this time. He dropped his jacket across the back of a chair and went to the fridge, pulling it open with some trepidation.

"Apples," he exclaimed, which could be roughly translated to – _You've bought us a refrigerator full of apples. Where the bloody hell is everything else we need?_

"Experiment." _Don't be silly, John. You can't _eat_ those. I'm doing a project._

"You – are infuriating," John said. No hidden meaning behind that one.

Sherlock's mouth twitched upward as John re-entered the living room. _Yes, I know. And yet here you are._

"I'll leave, you arrogant moron. I will. Don't think that I've got to put up with this kind of behavior." But Sherlock took unconscious note of the fond exasperation in John's tone and reverted the words in his mind to their intended purpose. _I'm not leaving. I just want to provoke a reaction out of you_. It wouldn't work, though. Sherlock's eyes rolled back for a moment in response.

_Don't be insulting. You're not going anywhere._

"There's no need to be so snippy, John. You _do_ owe me your life, after all," Sherlock's tone was casual, but as always, his words held double strength when closely observed. _We're comrades in arms, now. You shot Jefferson Hope, and I saved you from Shan. You're not leaving_.

"I saved you first!" John said indignantly. "Besides, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have needed the saving in the first place." _Of course I'm not leaving. Don't be a prat. Just do the damn shopping next time._

"I suppose," Sherlock said, a peace offering in his tone, "You could have an apple. Just one." _Because we're friends_.

"Oh, gee, thanks so much." Sarcasm. That much was easy. _I'll do the shopping tomorrow_.


End file.
